


Not Interested

by Lady_in_Red



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1626671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_in_Red/pseuds/Lady_in_Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaery drags Brienne along on her hen night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Interested

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Miss_M for betaing this one.

Brienne keeps her eyes on her phone when she notices the polished black loafers approaching her in a dim corner of the bar. “Not interested,” she says when they stop beside her table.

“That’s hardly fair. You didn’t even look up,” the man wearing those shoes protests, his voice the kind of dark, honeyed drawl that must turn women to mush on a regular basis, assuming the face matches the voice.

Brienne’s gaze reluctantly rolls up from the expensive shoes to dark, tailored slacks, a crisp pinstriped shirt with the cuffs rolled up over tanned forearms. He’s holding a bottle of beer in one hand, and as he brings it up to his mouth she follows the movement with her eyes.

Strong jaw covered in light stubble, brilliant green eyes, carelessly tousled dark blonde hair. _Damn._

Brienne takes a sip of her drink, playing for time. The fruity concoction topped with orange wedges and maraschino cherries is far too sweet, but Margaery ordered for everyone—and paid—so Brienne didn’t complain.

The handsome man raises one eyebrow, a small smile betraying his amusement. “What on earth are you drinking?”

Brienne sets down the glass, mutters, “Sex on the beach.”

He leans in, and Brienne tries to ignore his proximity, the scent of cologne clinging to his skin. “What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

She sighs, looks him in the eye. His green eyes are sparkling with amusement now. He heard her, but he’s going to make her say it again, so Brienne repeats herself matter-of-factly.

The man chuckles. “Overrated,” he says with a smirk, and she’s not sure if he’s talking about the drink or the act.

She rolls her eyes. He’s the third guy to talk to her tonight, and while definitely the best looking, his approach is nothing original. “Look, I didn’t order it. The bride did, and you’ll have better luck chatting up one of them.”

Brienne points across the bar, where Margaery and her friends are dancing enthusiastically with some college boys. Margaery is wearing a tiny, lacy white dress, a sash which proclaims “Bride,” and a cheap veil. Her sorority sisters and cousins are clustered around her, wearing garish necklaces with plastic penises on them. The necklaces sporadically light up. Brienne broke hers at the first opportunity and dumped the remains under the table where she sits alone, waiting to be dragged to the evening’s next venue, a male strip club.

Brienne doesn’t usually get much attention in bars, nor does she mind, but apparently all women out for a hen night are a big draw.

The man follows her gaze. “Too young, among other things. No thanks.” He looks back at Brienne. “What are _you_ doing with them?”

His incredulousness stings only a little. Brienne knows she doesn’t belong with those pretty, petite, put-together girls, who are, admittedly, making a spectacle of themselves. She’s taller and older than all of them, and her basic black dress is faded. It hasn’t fit quite right since she ignored the label and tossed it in her washing machine. Margaery put her foot down when the limo arrived to pick up Brienne and she was wearing jeans and a tank top.

The girls burst into a loud sing-along of “Come on, Eileen” as the man sits across from Brienne without being invited. His knee bumps hers under the small table. Now that he and his arrogant smirk are so close, Brienne can see he’s older than she’d assumed. Too old for Margaery and her friends, though they might make an exception for a man like him.

Brienne sips her drink, simply for something to occupy her hands. “The groom is my partner,” she explains. Brienne would much rather be out with Renly, but Margaery insisted that she come with the girls tonight.

“Partner? Are you a cop?” the man asks, and she can practically see the bondage fantasies running through his head. Typical.

Brienne shakes her head. “We have a restaurant.” Technically Renly owns the restaurant and runs the front of house, but the customers come for Brienne’s food, and he knows it.

As the song ends, one of the bridesmaids notices the gorgeous man sitting with Brienne, and grabs Margaery’s arm. The bride shoots Brienne a completely indiscreet wink and thumbs up before diving back into the fray.

“I’m Jaime, by the way,” the man says suddenly, and Brienne looks back to see him watching her expectantly.

Brienne considers giving Jaime a fake name, realizes that will be pointless if any of the girls come over while he’s still there. “Brienne.”

She watches the girls as another song begins. Margaery is dancing with one of her sorority sisters now. Brienne still doesn’t understand Renly and Margaery, but as long as Renly’s love life doesn’t affect the business, she supposes it doesn’t matter that he seems far more attached to his future brother-in-law than his bride.  

“So you have a restaurant?”

So far Jaime is actually better behaved than most of the men Brienne talks to in bars, and he doesn’t even seem drunk, which is a nice change of pace.

Brienne turns her attention from the bride back to him. Margaery’s friends will keep an eye on her. “Which one do you want?” Brienne asks wearily.  

He shakes his head. “What are you talking about?”

Brienne gestures at the bridal party. “Too young? Please. You don’t need to chat me up first. Just tell me which one you want me to introduce you to, as long as it’s not the bride.”

Jaime laughs. “Are you serious?”

Her expression apparently confirms it, and he sobers quickly. “My brother dragged me out tonight because he thinks I need to get laid,” Jaime says, putting air quotes around the last four words. “Maybe he’s right, but I’m not going to find someone in a random bar.”

Finally, the proposition. Brienne has plenty of experience with this, and it’s the main reason she loathes the bar scene. That and the terrible food. “Look, I’m not taking you home or sucking you off in the alley. So why don’t you just move along?” Brienne says bluntly.

Jaime is speechless for a second, his arrogance slipping away. He leans in. “You were the only other person here who looked like she didn’t want to be in a bar on a Saturday night. I thought we could be annoyed together.”

Brienne can’t help smiling a little. “You’re good. I haven’t heard that one before.”

He shrugs. “It’s not a line. Ask my brother. I’m terrible with women. He says I’m an asshole.”

She laughs, decides to play along with whatever con he’s running. It’s more interesting than the thoroughly frustrating game on her phone. “Which one is your brother?”

Jaime gestures to the bar. “Second from the left.”

His brother is a dwarf sitting on a bar stool chatting up a dark-haired woman. He catches Jaime’s eye, gives him a quizzical look, and then shrugs.

“So he says you’re an asshole?” Brienne asks, sipping her drink again. It really is terrible.

“Oh, I am,” Jaime agrees. “I’m an attorney. It goes with the territory.” He pauses. “Would you like another drink? Something other than that technicolor abomination?”

Brienne regards him suspiciously. “Why?”

He points to her drink. “You grimace every time you take a sip. Is it that bad?”

She smiles again. That’s getting to be a habit. “It’s too sweet,” she admits.

Jaime picks up the glass without asking, tastes her drink, and makes a face. “It’s awful. What do you want? Beer, wine? I’m buying.”

Usually Brienne would demur, but so far he’s not bad company and a slight buzz may make the  upcoming strip club easier to bear. “Lager. An unopened bottle.” She’s not stupid enough to drink something this guy could easily drug.

Jaime nods. “I’ll be right back.”

He won’t be, but she nods as if she believes him. Brienne checks her phone. 11:34. She has to be at the restaurant by six to start prepping for breakfast service. Brienne runs through her mental checklist. Sundays are their busiest days, and Renly won’t be in tomorrow because of last-minute wedding tasks.

An unopened bottle of Iron Throne thunks down on the chipped laminate tabletop in front of her. “So, would you like to play a game?”

Brienne looks up in surprise. They never come back. But of course he wants to play games. “Changed your mind about the bridesmaids?”

Jaime opens his bottle and hers. “No, Miss Public Intoxication and her friends Too Many Speeding Tickets, Disorderly Conduct, and Petty Larceny aren’t really my type.”

“Margaery has never been arrested,” Brienne protests, grateful the music is loud enough that the bride didn’t hear him.

“I didn’t say she had been. It’s just a game I play sometimes, when I’m out somewhere I’d rather not be.” At her questioning look, Jaime adds, “Guessing what people would most likely be arrested for.”

Brienne privately agrees with his assessment of the various drinking and boredom-induced crimes Margaery’s clique might commit, but she won’t tell Jaime that. “So let me guess. High-powered defense attorney?” She’d assumed some kind of contract law, with a fancy big-name firm, but he tossed out those criminal charges too easily.

Jaime shakes his head, pulls his wallet out of his pocket. He thumbs out a card, tosses it onto the table in front of her.

> Jaime Lannister  
>  Assistant District Attorney  
>  King’s Landing

It looks like a real business card, official crown seal and everything. Real address in the courthouse, phone number, government email address. And he’s a Lannister. Rich as sin, if the flashy glass tower bearing the Lannister name on Aegon’s High Hill is any indication.

“Okay, so you’re a prosecutor. Tell me, counselor, what would I be arrested for?” She pushes the card back toward him.

“Assault.” Jaime ignores the card, grinning as he picks up his bottle again.

Brienne laughs. “Wow, you really are an asshole.”

Jaime shrugs and sips his beer. “I told you.”

He seems so confident in his answer, Brienne can’t resist. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why assault?”

Jaime raises an eyebrow. “Do you really want to know?”

She nods, bracing for the inevitable comment about her size.

He takes a deep breath. “You work in a field dominated by men, so they tend to dismiss you even though you’re bigger than most of them. You’re strong, probably from boxing or some kind of martial arts. Since you work in a restaurant, I assume you’re handy with a knife too. Someday an idiot might push you too far, and you’d beat him down. He wouldn’t take it with any good grace and would probably want to press charges.”

Brienne blushes. He’s right on several counts, though she can’t imagine using a knife on anyone. She has had several altercations with jerks already, and all were too embarrassed to call the police. “I’ve done martial arts since I was a kid. I wouldn’t need a knife. Other than that, you’re mostly right.”

Jaime looks more than a little pleased with himself. Half of his office staff is in love with him, Brienne decides. The other half hate his smirk, his expensive suits, his name. Defense attorneys must loathe him.

Brienne points at a lean young man with messy reddish-blonde hair and a cocky grin standing by the bar. “What about him?”

Jaime rolls his eyes. “Soliciting a prostitute. Try a little harder next time.”

Brienne points out several more people, Jaime offering colorful tales of their possible crimes. He’s asked her to give it a try when Brienne’s phone rings.

She is confused to see Margaery’s face on the screen. “Excuse me.” Brienne answers the call, scanning the bar as she does. “Margaery?”

Margaery giggles. “How’s it going with the hottie you picked up?”

Brienne finishes her sweep of the bar. The girls aren’t there. “Did you sneak out?”

“Maybe,” Margaery sing-songs.

Brienne mutters a string of curses under her breath. “Feel free to bring everyone by the restaurant in the morning. I’ll find you a table,” she says as calmly as she can manage. Pulled along on this stupid evening and then ditched. Unbelievable. But Margaery will be Renly’s wife, and Brienne needs to play nice.

She still hangs up without saying goodbye, and definitely without answering Margaery’s question.

Jaime watches her curiously. “Did they ditch you?” He actually looks concerned, which is sweet but she doesn’t need his pity.

Brienne checks the time. 12:41. She puts on a bright smile, realizing that Margaery’s done her a favor, and not the one she thinks. “They went to a strip club. I don’t mind missing that.”

Jaime smiles wickedly. “You don’t want a scantily-clad stranger grinding in your lap?”

His voice is full of mock innocence, but the image of a muscle-bound man doing that sticks in Brienne’s mind and brings a blush to her cheeks again.

“No,” Brienne splutters. She shoves her phone into her purse, a battered old thing she bought at her college roommate’s insistence years ago and rarely carries.

Jaime looks back at the bar. The crowd has thinned out some, but he smiles when he spots his brother, chatting animatedly with a kid who has clearly gotten in here with a fake ID.

Brienne stands, clutching her purse. “I need to head home. I have to be at work at six.”

Jaime’s brow knits. “At the restaurant?”

“We serve breakfast. Brunch, really, on a Sunday, but it’s our busiest day.” Brienne pinches her own hand to stop herself babbling. Jaime looks so adorably confused as to why she would leave. Truly, this is unprecedented for Brienne, this easy, ridiculous conversation with a beautiful, self-confessed asshole.

“Oh, so it’s just a breakfast place.”

Brienne stiffens. If she had a silver stag for every time she’s heard that, she could buy out Renly. “Right,” she says coldly. “Just a breakfast place. Goodnight, counselor.” If Jaime had ever eaten her buttermilk biscuits with lemon curd and honeycomb, or her Dornish egg skillet, he wouldn’t say it was “just breakfast.”

She makes her way to the door without looking back. It was a pleasant hour, and saved her from the embarrassment of watching Margaery stuff one-dragon notes into a writhing Dothraki’s g-string.

The night is cool and fragrant. The cherry trees are in bloom, and even here by the King’s Gate the scent wafts down from the parks on Visenya’s Hill.

A cab idles by the curb, in anticipation of drunks needing a lift. Brienne gets inside, tells the driver where she needs to go.

The cab is waiting for a break in traffic when a tap on the window startles her. Jaime is leaning against the door, his brother fidgeting on the sidewalk behind him.

Brienne rolls down the window but doesn’t speak.

Jaime rests his hand on the edge of the open window, and something flutters down into her lap. “I did say I was an asshole.” There’s an apology in his smile, if not in his words.

Brienne almost says what she always does. _It’s fine. Don’t worry about it._ But this time she doesn’t. “Goodbye, Jaime.”

The cab drives off before he can reply.

Brienne is halfway to Cobbler’s Square before she allows herself to pick up what Jaime dropped.

His business card. Proof the last hour actually happened. She flips it over.

A phone number is scrawled on the back.

Briefly Brienne pictures playing “guess the crime” at Renly’s reception, an event sure to be filled with excruciatingly awkward moments. She pictures the look on Margaery’s face if Brienne asked to bring a plus one to the wedding. Fun as that might be, she won’t.

But maybe she’ll invite Jaime to breakfast, Brienne decides, and tucks the card into her purse.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel can be read here: [Just Breakfast](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4383209).


End file.
